


just holy branches

by benshaws



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benshaws/pseuds/benshaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfinished fanfic exploring Dorian Pavus' drinking problem. Cullen finds him drunk and confronts him the day afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just holy branches

“I’m surprised you’re even standing after last night,” Cullen says, loitering beside the stairs like an unwelcome guest. From the look on Dorian’s face at his entrance, it would appear he was one.

In all honesty, the library of Skyhold did not particularly make Cullen feel at home. This was a place for Solas, Leliana, or even Dorian, but not for Cullen. He was better suited at dealing with mouthy soldiers and scout reports than fancy words. Besides, with Thedas in the condition it was in, and the Inquisition in a state of shock after the destruction of Haven, Cullen did not have the luxury of losing himself in a good book. If the other members of the Inquisition could discover an advantage from scripture or psalm he would thank them for their efforts, but Cullen’s skills were better suited to a battlefield than a library. Nonetheless, after yesterday’s fiasco, Cullen could not not check on Dorian, even if he didn’t exactly feel comfortable in a world of dusty bookshelves.

Dorian’s expression is sour like an over ripe fruit on approach. He tosses the bittersweet look over his shoulder and slides his fingers down the spine of a book.

“Why? Did something interesting happen?” Dorian asks, waving a hand in Cullen’s general direction, as though he were trying to clear a bad smell… or dismiss a pestering servant. A gesture that might have become habit in the mage’s homeland, for all Cullen knows.

“You honestly don’t remember?”

It was hard to know with Dorian what was bluster and what was the honest truth, and Cullen was finding it hard trying to differentiate between the two. Cullen couldn’t decide whether Dorian was playing naive or was legitimately ignorant of the events of last night.

Regardless, Dorian’s behaviour had been… Worrisome. Cullen wouldn’t be here if it had been nothing but a drink, but Dorian had been past the point of just plain drunk. There was a reason why Cullen had posted someone outside Dorian’s room last night, and it wasn’t so that they could fetch the mage some warm cocoa if the mood struck. Cullen had been genuinely worried about Dorian’s safety. He still was.

If Dorian honestly couldn’t remember the events of last night… Well, it wasn’t doing anything to ease Cullen’s mind.

“Another night, another bottle of wine - what can I say?”

“You were…” A crasser man might say pissed, Cullen settles for: “Inebriated.”

Dorian looks at Cullen as though he were something quite small and quaint in his way. It was infuriating, to say the least.

“I’m hoping this is getting to a point, Commander, as I was really hoping to finish a new read of mine before our dear Inquisitor decides it’s time to go and kill things again,” Dorian informs him, plucking the supposed book from the shelf and waving it mid-air. “It really is quite hard to find the time to sit down with a good book in-between murdering dark spawn and the like.”

“Dorian,” Cullen says, and the mage looks up at him sharply, as though he’d just pricked him with a pin. “You were drunk.”

“So I’ve been informed,” Dorian shrugs after a beat, a note of exasperation to his voice. In a gesture bordering an eyeroll, his gaze slides away from Cullen and to the window overlooking the courtyard. “But still, you’ve failed to tell me why we’re having this tantalising conversation.”

Cullen shifts his weight awkwardly from leg to leg, but his gaze does not falter from the line of Dorian’s shoulders.

“Do you think you might have a problem?” Cullen asks cautiously, and feels flung back in time to the first night he had to raid a bandits den. Dangerous territory.

Dorian laughs. It’s a soft slither of a sound, although his expression conveys the softness of a storm. He turns himself away from the window and leans his hip against the brick work, arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s a little drink when the world is ending?”

“A little drink?” Cullen echoes, flummoxed. “I practically had to drag you into bed.”

“Oh, so that’s why I woke up swaddled in blankets like a child. Very romantic. Did you carry me to my room, as well?”

Dorian was testing his patience. “I said I dragged you to your room, not carried. I was worried… For your safety. I still am.”

Dorian looks at Cullen narrowly, his expression turning serious and his eyes dark. He leans his head back against wall and when he talks his voice has dropped significantly in volume, erring on the side of caution.

“Did something happen between us?”

No jokes, no ego, the honest question and it’s content takes Cullen aback. Why would Dorian ever think- He shakes his head. “No, Dorian. Maker, no.”

Just like that, Dorian’s seriousness flutters away like a lazy butterfly on a summers day. Suddenly, he’s all sunshine and rainbows again.

“Oh good,” Dorian says, chirpy, pushing himself off the wall and tapping the knuckles of his hand on the front cover of his book. “For a second I thought I might have taken your blushing virginity, and that would have been a sorry thing to forget.”

Cullen sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Why did he think this conversation would be a good idea? It was giving him a headache.

“I’m /not/ a blushing virgin.”

“Except your red cheeks say otherwise.”

Practically gloating, the Tevinter mage flashes Cullen a smile and leisurely drops down into his arm chair. Forget butterflies, Dorian’s movements remind Cullen of a cat. In this case, a particularly smug, self-righteous cat. Cullen had always been more of a dog person, himself. Cats were too… Unpredictable. They had too little loyalty.

Cullen places his hand on the hilt of his sword, looking down at his fingers. Dorian had distracted him, yet again. The mage’s ability to deflect the conversation away from the very topic Cullen was trying to discuss was unnerving. A part of him wishes he had talked Cassandra into breaching this conversation with Dorian, as he was sure she would be making better progress than he was at this stage. The only reason why he hadn’t was- Well- Today his fingers were steady.

He flexes his hand over the hilt of his sword and straightens. 

“What’s the longest you’ve gone without having a drink?”

Dorian looks up at him from where he had opened his book on his lap. Now his annoyance almost palpable.

“Still having this conversation, are we? I can find you some shackles if you’d like,” Dorian quips, his voice on the sharper side of chipper. “I take it that’s how Templars usually prefer their mages when they question them, yes?”

Cullen’s jaw ticks. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

“And yet it distinctly feels like one. Strange that.”

Cullen takes a step forward and Dorian begins to sit forward at the approach, Cullen holds up an open palm.

“I’m only saying… There’s nothing to be ashamed of if you’ve got a problem.”

Dorian sits back, slowly, and lifts his chin.

“Does telling yourself that help you get to sleep at night, Commander?”

Cullen drops his hand, but it stays hovering beside his sword, wary. His voice is tense. “What do you mean?”

“And here I was thinking you were more than just a pretty face.” He smiles, closed mouthed and unimpressed. Dorian flourishes a hand in Cullen’s direction. “Lyrium. You’ve stopped taking it.”

Of all the things Cullen was expecting to hear from Dorian’s mouth, that was not one of them. The word lyrium drops like a dead weight to the pit of his stomach.

He drags in a breath. “How do you know?”

“Now that would be telling.”

“How do you know?” Cullen repeats, sharply and, in a movement that’s practically muscle memory, tightens his hand around his sword. Dorian’s eyes skip from Cullen’s face to the sword the instant Cullen moves.

They aren’t alone here, both of them are very aware of that.

“Temper, temper,” Dorian says, in a way which is no less goading and no less frustrating. He leans his elbows on his knees and sits forward, looking upward. “Wouldn’t want the whole keep finding out you’re off your special booster juice, now, would we?”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck and glowers.

Cassandra wouldn’t have told Dorian, and if Leliana’s spies had found out Cullen very much doubted Leliana would be open to sharing such sensitive information, either. If not for Cullen, then for the Inquisitions reputation. Which leaves…

“Have you been spying on me?”

Dorian laughs again, a noise which is really beginning to grate Cullen’s nerves. He’d about had it with Dorian’s games.

“I’m flattered, really, that you think your life interests me so much that I would spy on you,” Dorian replies, with a half smile. “No, I have not been peeping in your windows. Besides, your tower is much too high, I’d need a rather long ladder.”

“Enough,” Cullen says firmly, pinching the bridge of his nose again. He waves his hand in Dorian’s direction, out of frustration more than anything. He clenches his fingers together mid air, as if he could grab hold of his frustration and trap it within a fist.“Enough games, Dorian.”

The man looks contemplative at Cullen’s words and then sighs, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. He looks like a child who had his new toy taken away. “You smell different,” Dorian explains, almost petulant.

Cullen stares at him and repeats back, slowly, “I smell different?”

“Do you have problems with your hearing?” Dorian asks, fidgeting in his seat. “That’s what I said.”

Cullen clenches his jaw, “I told you I’ve had enough of your games, Dorian.”

“And I’m not joking, Commander,” Dorian practically sneers the word. He sighs. “You templars in the south and your lyrium. The smell clings to you, like lightning after a storm. You don’t smell like that anymore.”

Dorian shrugs a shoulder and unfolds his arms, “That and you practically confirmed you were off the stuff. We should play poker sometime.”


End file.
